as the cord pulls tighter
by crowthorn
Summary: they think they do it on purpose. -— or, bart & lisa, asphyxiating.
1. worth

**title**; hunger (part one — worth).  
><strong>summary<strong>; it really bugs you, sometimes.  
><strong>wordcount<strong>; 775.

* * *

><p><em>"Aw, she's just upset 'cause I told her her brain's turnin' to mush. On account of the Simpson gene!"<em>

_Bart_

It really bugs you, sometimes.

It's not really her brains or her talent or her brilliance that sets you on edge. Not any more. You had been told, a long time ago, that it was in your blood to be a fuck up. That it was _expected_ and _normal_ for you to screw around all the time. To fail classes and go nowhere and pull pranks and just find other ways to act like a retard. And it had _hurt_, that revelation, the pounding weight of maturation against your ivories and bones. The force of it's early release — the understanding that you are not as great and unlikely and magnificent as you once thought you were.

It _still aches_, actually, a dull throb in the body's hollow vacancies, but that's when you began not caring what anyone else thought of you. The exact moment you gave up. You could do whatever you damned well pleased, and the rest of the world could go fuck itself and rot, because this is what they told you to do. They couldn't yell at your for following your calling, the one that was _expected_ and _normal_.

But Lisa is desperate. Hungry. Ready and willing to set out into the world and prove she isn't going down the same condemned path, ready to prove she isn't an idiot.

And it really bugs you, sometimes.

Because, the fact of the matter is, she's downright _brilliant_ (have you said that before?). She had jumped up grade levels and scored straight A's and had a four-point-oh GPA. She could play the sax and learned languages and warded off parents and made friends and connections and created respect _out of nowhere_ like there was no tomorrow. Comparing your metamorphoses was a bit like comparing the phases of a swelling, beautiful moon to the monstrous shift of a werewolf. She floated above you, and others, even, not because she was an idiot, but because she was so smart and gorgeous and talented and, honestly, just honestly, she didn't _deserve_ shit like that, and _everybody_ could see it, so long as she was a beautiful, lunar genius. It made you grind your teeth, made you see red and punch walls and disassociate yourself with everything _Lisa_. And you had been screamed at for all those walls and those fights and for making your sister cry, and been told that, no boy, I don't care what your problem is, but you'd better figure it out.

And then you noticed: it really bugs you, sometimes.

Because suddenly, what was _expected_ and _normal_ did a complete 180. It was _expected_ for you to act like a tool; it was _normal_ for Lisa to push herself until there was nothing left of her. And sure, you were, are, stupid, barely grasping at the basics — but you knew how much it hurt her, to have to keep proving her worth. And you knew how much it hurt her that everyone expected her to turn out _just like you_. And it hurt you too, that you were just the butt of every joke, the absolute value of zero in the whole town. But you had learned, long ago, that you were _nothing_. That everything you ever did was worth _nothing_, because you were still you, and you were _expected_ to go right back to your hell-mongering ways.

(You know who you are.

And it's _okay_, really.

It's okay to be alone.

But she doesn't know who she is.

She doesn't see her worth.)

And it really bugs you, sometimes.

"Hi, Bart," a voice says.

Tentative.

Desperate.

Normal.

"Hey, Lis," you say, and she backs away from your bedroom's door-frame into her own corner in the world.

And that really worries you, sometimes.

Because she _shouldn't_ be so shy and hesitant to be near you. She _shouldn't_ have to jump head-first into every opportunity, bear every bit of responsibility as she searches for who she is. She _shouldn't_ have to be perfect, shouldn't have to sacrifice herself for good marks and a handful of scholarship money.

She _shouldn't_ be begging for scraps, hoping, pleading, not to be left behind, no, not again.

It just _bugs_ you, sometimes.

It reminds you too much of yourself.

* * *

><p><em>- crowthorn<em>

_Last edited on July 23, 2014._


	2. bastard

**title**; hunger (part two — bastard).  
><strong>summary<strong>; it really bugs you, sometimes.  
><strong>wordcount<strong>; 755.

* * *

><p><em>"I don't know why I did it; I don't know why I enjoyed it; and I don't know why I'll do it again!" <em>

_Lisa_

It really bugs you, sometimes.

It's not really his attitude or his laugh that sets you off any more. You've been told, since the day that you were born — between both rage-induced rush races and glorious, hopeful midnight whispers — that you were better than Bart. You're a golden child, a prodigy; he's a savage, a bastard. And it used to annoy you that he couldn't pretend to be smart or loyal or caring in public. It used to annoy you that sometimes, just sometimes, he would come along, take what was yours, be so _perfect_ at it, and then walk away, bored. It made you grind your teeth, made you scream at him to give back what he stole — and it made you ignore the painfully confused looks he sent your way (because, really, he hadn't done anything wrong). And it was _normal_ and _expected_ for you to be better than him; so much so that, instead of trying to push him forward, everyone tried to hold him back.

But the truth is, after a while, Bart got used to it. He got used to being _nothing_ and _worthless_ and _useless_ and _stupid_. He was like a stray hound, his tail tucked between his legs, as if he _has_ done something wrong.

And it really bugs you, sometimes.

Because the fact of the matter is, Bart is a much better person than you can ever hope to be. He's calm and cool and has saved your hide more times than you care to remember, and yes, even yes, he can be _kind_. You know that, sometimes, he can be as deep as the shallow end of the pool and dumb as a hamster; but you know, also, that he is brave, and clever, and sometimes just likes to sit and stare at the stars. He's a breathing, extant being, throwing his weight against the totality of the moment, and it doesn't matter that he fails half the time because he _tries,_ as hard as he can.

You cringe when you remember how this used to annoy you, spite you, evoke an envious wrath beating against your skull, the way everything was so _effortless_ for him – you had diverged, separating yourself from this presence called _Bart_. And you had been frowned at for those haughty sniffs, those wounds to your pride, and told that, yes, honey, I know he's hard to get along with right now, but just try for me, he's been dealing with a lot and could you please, please try not to aggravate him, why are you even _doing_ it?

And then you noticed: it really bugs you, sometimes.

Because what is _expected _and _normal is _shaping and shifting into a monster. It's _expected_ of you to be perfect; it's _normal_ for Bart to think that he is worthless. That he's disgustingly himself.

(You notice that he can still find himself sometimes, and it faintly makes you smile; you still can call him anything you want to in the heat of the chase, Homer can still bark whatever he pleased when he punished him, and Bart would just laugh it off like a dog.

But call him a bastard, he goes off and finds a mirror to smash.

It's seven years of bad luck for each one.

You've always been a lucky person.

And you suppose it just hits too close to home.)

And it really bugs you, sometimes.

"Bart," you say, standing by his door.

Pleading.

Hoping.

Expected.

"Hey Lis," he says, and its dead dead _dead_, so you back away and let him howl at the moon.

You hiss, "bastard," between your teeth before you notice.

And that really scares you, sometimes.

Because things shouldn't have to be this way. He shouldn't have to think he's _worthless_, that he's scum. He shouldn't have to be _nothing_, shouldn't have to sacrifice every bit of himself so that you could be flawless.

He _shouldn't_ be fighting for scraps, tentative, desperate, but resigned to waiting to be left behind again.

It just _bugs_ you, sometimes.

It reminds you too much of yourself.

* * *

><p><em>- crowthorn<em>

_Last edited on July 23, 2014._


	3. fists

**title**; prehensile (part one — fists).  
><strong>summary<strong>; she's grabbing your hand.  
><strong>wordcount<strong>; 3010.

* * *

><p><em>"Nature started the fight for survival, and now she wants to quit because she's losing. Well, I say, 'hard cheese.' "<em>

_Bart_

She's grabbing your hand, and you swear to Christ that it must be genetic; a sort of natal memory prowls in the back of your mind, of fingers, warm and slender, covering your own. Of a song, a voice, ghosting across your senses. Only these are more violent, confused, proud — the flickering shifts of emotion are enough to throw you into a tornado of confusion, and you shut off all feeling or accord, besides the harsh physical tap of Lisa's digits against your skin. She stretches each of them, thumb, index, middle, ring, pinky, searching with some kind of eldritch fascination for things that should be so fucking obvious.

"You're an _idiot_, you know that?" she's grumbling with reluctant admiration, flipping your wrist so she can look at your palm. Vaguely, you wonder why she's doing that, why you're letting her, _there can't be a reason_. The only thing she'll find are the warm edges of callouses, a few sticky trickles and drips of blood, and maybe a careless scar or three. It's your knuckles, you reflect, your knuckles which tell today's story, red and cut and bruised and _probably _stinging, though you're not too sure any more.

So maybe they're not saying much at all.

She must feel your disapproval, because your hand's turned over again. There's a breath — no, a sigh — and you feel the cool air of disappointment pulse across the atmosphere, an electric impression.

"I know," you say, your voice dull and insomnias. Lisa, clever thing that she is, turns her sharp regard upwards. You arch a scabbing brow at her, and she'll find nothing _there_ either, except for more damage, nothing in your expression, no answers or explanations, or even any laughter. The latter is concerning enough that doubt expands in her eyes.

You snort, and that's when she gets angry.

She jerks your hand, and the rest of you, up the stairs. You hiss, but it's an instinctive reaction, a belated phantom pain. Her sideways glance reminds you that, when it comes to your sister, at least, you're a pretty shit liar.

You're not feeling much right now, and she knows it.

No point in pretending. You cut yourself off mid-spit.

Lisa throws herself, and then your hand, and then the rest of you into the bathroom, slamming the door shut. She pauses for a minute before harshly locking it, as though she'd rather be twisting something else. Without looking at you, because she's probably disgusted that your stupidity has managed to impress her again, she pads to the medicine cabinet below the sink, tightly silent. You take your seat on the counter, eyeing her, pretending you're unconcerned as she flinches away from the closeness, pretending worry isn't making you resurface early.

She's not scared of you, exactly. She's not scared _for _you, either. She's scared in that sort of nondescript way, the way that explodes tiny bits of shrapnel and spitfire rather than any gunmetal or danger. Concerned, maybe. She's explained this before, patiently, a long time ago, before the first lacerations settled on your virgin fists. _You're terrifying when you get like this, _she had confessed.

Which might be true, but you probably just startled her, anyway, because the house is really quiet right now and you're even quieter and maybe she didn't notice you hop up.

She can't _honestly _be scared.

(She could be, maybe. Cold anger is probably paralysing, you think. Dead eyes and dead limbs and dead fists. You're not entirely sure, since you're more prone to defiance.)

You're not taking in much right now, either, and she hates this about you; _but only sometimes,_ you bite, _when she's not grateful for it_.

"You really did a number on yourself," she mutters, and it feels like _finally_. While your mind was up in space, she had taken the liberty of fishing out cream, cotton, some kind of bandage for your fingers and some other, smaller, kind for your face. Her voice, still a bit charged, somehow shocks you out on your reverie; you crash back down to Earth, and have the decency to look sheepish while you lie in the dirt.

"You should see the other guy," you tease, the corner of your lips pulling upwards in a crooked grin. Unamused, she practically throws a bottle of peroxide down on the tile counter-top. Your smile falls, slightly.

You shut your eyes against the onslaught of noise, leaning against the mirror, its coolness infecting your spine and sending a wave of relief throughout your anatomy. She's grabbed something else too, and is now pacing the length of the tiny room for whatever reason. It's not pointless, you know, since she does everything purposefully. You only hear her footsteps (which are_ fucking loud_, but all that means is that Lisa is upset with you and she really wants you to know about it). You can hear your own breathing if you focus, which you do, in and out, in, out. You see nothing.

You feel sort of bad. Well, you feel downright _awful _right now, actually, uncomfortably warm in your stomach, but you keep this fact to yourself, because your sister would think she was horrible if she figured she was turning this incident into _her_ problem. Except that she kind of is, because you pummelling the shit out of some kid by the back dumpsters and getting suspended for the third time this semester (and-one-more-toe-out-of-line-Simpson-I-_mean_-it!) really is no one else's issue but your own.

You don't care that you did it, because you've never cared much about that sort of thing, but Lisa's absolutely furious, and that's the only thing that's registering with you right now.

Besides, you totally won that fight, so the temporary expulsion was _completely_ worth it.

The notice is in your back pocket, actually, and if you wiggle your ass you can hear the crinkle of the thick paper. There's going to be hell to pay when Homer gets home, but you have a feeling that something will be confirmed, that that something'll hurt worse than a man's choke-hold, that your mother's familiar fingers will rub against your fists again, partially soothing and mostly disturbed, that you'll retreat inside yourself so you don't have to deal. This might make her tear up, in a confusing, half-mad-half-something-else way, but it won't matter, she'll be upset more than anything, and she's quiet when she's upset.

With you. At you. Whatever.

It _is_ genetic, has to be, because you can never tell with either Lisa or Marge what exactly they're feeling.

It's just a lot. Too much for any of them, no matter what end they're on.

There's a sudden flash of thick cloth against your eyebrow. The peroxide is cold, and your eyes snap open — Lisa's rubbing a swab over the cut, and she looks calmer, if not happier.

"Does it hurt?" she asks, but you don't answer, because the honest one would be something she doesn't want to hear. Lisa understands, anyway, and her strokes get a bit more confident; the epinephrine that's still in your blood prevents the nerves from sparking, or maybe you're still shut down.

"How'd you get that?" she wonders, and you can tell by the focus and the intensity of her swipes that she's honestly curious.

"Asshole got a cheap-shot in," you shrug. The memories of the fight are starting to settle, reachable.

She talks to herself, "that might scar," but you're silent again.

No reason. It just wasn't a question.

She's done, and she takes a look at the cotton before tossing it out. Which was a mistake, apparently, because she makes a funny, disgusted face at the sanguine tint to it. Despite yourself, amusement and relief flood your body; your shoulders relax, and there's a familiar looseness to your movements now, feeling more and more like the languid dog you're suppose to be. Lisa looks more like herself, too, though you can tell she's still annoyed.

You have that effect on her. You've always been able to piss her off like no one else. Sometimes it's a game, but mostly it's a talent.

She turns to your hands, next, and the same hesitantly awestruck expression flashes across her face. "Jesus," she breathes, and it's a sharp sound; her body stills, a tiny bit, cloth pausing in the air. You look down, try to see what she's seeing, but it's just — crimson and drying and sticky familiarity, by now, so you remain unimpressed. She's dabbing at it, much more hesitant than before, which is odd, since she's not particularly squeamish.

Your focus narrows. She's too... tense, coiled, prepared like something is about to strike her. Or, perhaps, like she's about to strike something else; her face is pale, wane, and that's not something you're entirely used to. "You okay?" you ask, tilting your head.

She looks incredulous, but not at you, still focused on all the blood, so you only get a side-view. This would be hysterical if it weren't so confusing. "Are _you_?"

Definitely confusing.

You're not answering, again, because seriously, what the hell kind of question is that? You're not the one about to puke inside an open wound. You're not the one with too-white skin and too-thin wrists and too-dark eyes. Come to think of it, she's been acting weird for a while. It makes you look harder at her, maybe a little too hard.

Her anger's completely melted under the weight of your what-the-actual-fuck stare, and she seems sick and smart. Inwardly, you groan; you can practically see the wheels turning in her head, things considered, discarded, pieced together, or put away. You don't like to think about Lisa thinking (it's a bit too much like depth for you) so you look down at your hands, where your sister is rubbing some kind of cream around the swelling, being careful about the cuts.

She notices. "Does _this _hurt?" She jostles your fist, hard, but you're shaking your head at her. "Jesus."

It really doesn't. Your head hurts, a little, because your sister's talent is making you go cross-eyed, but that's nothing a few hours of listlessness can't fix.

She's angry again, but this time it's because you're not really talking with her. "You really _are _an idiot. You're lucky this doesn't need stitches, you ass."

Angry, concerned. Whatever.

You never can tell, but it leads to the same thing.

You start to get a little paranoid and desperate, though, because when you're confused silence starts to weigh a fuckton. This isn't the first time, nor is it the last, and it's the one rhythm you can't really flow with, the one rut you can't burrow beneath. The question is poised, _why would you do this? _and you can tell she really wants to ask it, but... won't.

She's not _scared _though. Who would be scared of _you_?

She's. Something else.

But not _scared_.

"The guy was talking shit," you blurt, and she's quick to focus on your face. The role reversal sends shivers of deja-vu down your body. "About you, I mean."

She's got to know that, though, because she was there. Lisa looks stunned, but there's no way in hell that she missed it, missed the onslaught on fists. She was _right there_, because one of her friends had pried her away from her locker after school, chirping that her brother had gotten into another fight with someone, I wonder who it is? Is it Steve, I heard he was bugging him during lunch, is that right? The gaggle of laughing girls had been quick to push their way through the crowd, and dead centre was Lisa, looking horrified and still and so much older than the rest of them.

But not _scared_, really, and _come on, Lis', are you gunna make me spell it? _

You have a bit of a reputation, and that's this; you laugh, you prank, you're going nowhere, and, as your sister just pointed out, you could be a right ass, but you don't like to fight. You can, though, you're actually pretty good at it, and you do it a lot, even if you never start it.

You're also surprisingly protective, with a few berserk buttons, so when some prick began to hound you this morning, Nelson started taking bets on how long it would take for one of them to get pushed, and which one. It was a tough call, since it initially couldn't be decided which remark really set you off — the one where you're a _cowardly, stupid bastard _or the one where _your sister is a dirty slut. _

But Lisa didn't see that, she only saw the fight itself; she'd ducked outside the steel doors by the kitchens just in time to watch you jump the guy, wail on him hard enough to cut your knuckles on his teeth and still break his nose, work through the pain, pretend the slash on over your brow and the scarlet on your hand was nothing, smile in grim satisfaction at the kid's panicky expression, and _ha, I bet that fucker isn't so smug now. _She might've called out your name, you're not entirely sure, but she was definitely there when you grabbed your downed opponent by the throat, when you told him, deadly calm and ominous, the gathered crowd waiting in silent anticipation, that he was not to call his little sister a slut, a prostitute, a hooker, a whore, a call girl, a harlot, or anything else that he wanted to call it.

She was there when Sherry and Terry crowed victory, earning a pretty sum, because she gave them a look that was equally nasty and astonished. And when the Vice-Principle grabbed you by the scruff and drug a limp you into his office, too, because you caught the infinite sadness in her eyes, the familiar disappointed stare that, for your family at least, meant _Bart fucked up again_.

She was waiting for you when you left school, a slip in your pocket and apathy in your face, because she wrenched you by your bloodied hand on the front steps and drug your dumb ass home. She watched you, standing on the porch like you're an outsider, sucking on your knuckles and lesions until she gave you a good _thwap _around the head, threw you inside the house, and became angry.

She's gone all quiet again, so you continue, and you feel your heart; it's pace is not rapid, but dense, and it almost hurts, which is probably why the rest of you doesn't. "He's an idiot. And his sister actually _is _a wh-you know, so he was in no position to throw out names."

Lisa's looking at you like you're impossible, like she feels lighter and worse all at once. Then she just turns to your war wounds again, and exhales, "these are definitely going to scar."

You snort again, but in an entertained way rather than derisively. Like, oh, child, of course they're going to scar, what do _you_ know about scars?

You know what will happen, because it's happened before — your unwillingness to fight for yourself, but to always fight for your family, turns you into some kind of bad habit. Your fingers will swell and bleed, and then the bruising will begin heal. Last, the imprints will fade over all the other ones, until you forget which cuts came from what's-his-name and which ones came from whoever-he-was.

You're not worried about yourself. You don't care about that.

You suddenly began to wonder when Lisa began to mind so much, why it felt like she had stopped minding, because she clearly never did.

She wraps your fingers (it's done a bit too professionally, she's been handling you too long), and takes a step back, putting some things back in the cabinet, throwing some others away. You slide off the counter and give a flex of your prehensile joints. She's quiet, again, but probably not angry, and definitely not scared, because you don't scare her, you just love her until it hurts, until there's nothing left for you to give.

You open your mouth and lightly suck on the bandages, even though you know it won't help your now-stinging fingers, won't do a thing at all, they're wrapped to well. Abruptly, which sort of feels like she's stealing your bit, she turns around and cocks her head at you. "How did it feel?"

"How did what feel?"

"How did your fists feel," she clarifies, "when you decked that guy?"

You grin around the bandage. "Ow."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Been a bit of interest in this series lately, for whatever reason. Here's something for those who still keep an eye or a bat on this half-dead horse. <strong>_

_- crowthorn_

_Last edited on July 27, 2014._


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